


U-17

by Reyanth



Series: Sins of the Flesh [2]
Category: New Prince of Tennis - Fandom, Tenipuri - Fandom, Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: A little fetish play but not as much as SotF, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyanth/pseuds/Reyanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Fuji and Ryouma have been abandoned one way or another. Now, playing for different teams, the two find solace in one another while their respective exes are forced to accept this un-forseen turn of events. Love and sex revolve around a foundation of tennis and ambition. Which instincts will win out in the end?</p><p>Following on from Sins of the Flesh (set during the goodwill games filler arc of the anime), U-17 deals with the continuation of the established relationships as the new material of the manga unfolds. </p><p>Warning: Shin-teni spoilers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a separate story but my preconceptions of pairings were so clearly taken from SotF that I decided to make it the next installment of that series. 
> 
> A quick recap (spoilers ahead for Sins of the Flesh):  
> SotF: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6434191/chapters/14727946  
> Tezuka returned from Germany to the training camp, planning to pursue Fuji, only to find that Fuji was in a complicated, sado-masochistic relationship with Atobe.  
> As it turned out, Fuji was the one initiating this aspect. Atobe, in love with Fuji, was just caught in the web.  
> Tezuka, unable to stand this, determined to come between them and make Fuji his own, which Atobe eventually co-operated with for Fuji's sake.  
> Meanwhile, Ryouma, in love with Tezuka, suffered heartbreak, only to find consolation in an equally heart-broken Atobe.  
> Still on rocky ground, Fuji agreed to try things Tezuka's way and prioritize love and compassion over his desire for self-punishment.
> 
> Throughout the remainder of the Prince of Tennis series, one can assume that these relationships have deepened and developed, until Tezuka's desertion back to Germany throws a spanner in the works.
> 
> The story resumes in Australia.
> 
> BEWARE:  
> New Prince of Tennis manga SPOILERS will be found within.

Having not quite forgiven Tezuka’s decision to run off to Germany and pursue a pro tennis career just when they were about to enter their highschool sweetheart days, Fuji found himself surprisingly annoyed that his supposed boyfriend hadn’t yet made time for him now that they were back on the same continent—despite the fact that his own plan was to rub Tezuka’s nose in how incredibly busy and unavailable he was himself. Since arriving in Australia, Tezuka had only messaged him once to say he’d touched down safely. Fuji hadn’t replied. He wasn’t about to start now—even if he was dying to know where Tezuka was, what he was doing, and why he hadn’t asked to meet yet.

He was feeling quite displaced, these days. When Tezuka had left him fighting alone on the courts in the middle of what was supposed to be their final match, Fuij hadn’t made the connection with their relationship. Tezuka’s messages since then had been friendly but devoid of intimacy. Loneliness had drifted in but despite his instincts, Fuji had avoided Atobe and, by association, Echizen, for the knowledge that he would only do them harm. Yuuta was as insincere as ever—agreeing to play doubles with him one moment, then hating him for winning the match they were tricked into playing as a result, then sacrificing himself to warn of impending pillow wars… then blaming his outraged big brother for wiping out all who dared to so much as breathe a feather in his direction… Same old, same old.

Several invitations had come Fuji’s way since Tezuka’s departure—perhaps the most intriguing of which had come from Hyoutei’s Oshitari Yuushi, but Fuji had intended to stay faithful even if he was lonely. He had determined to pour himself into improving his tennis so that when he did come face to face with Tezuka, he would be able to put his boyfriend to shame on the courts. It would be a sweet revenge. All that time away would result in loss against the tensai he had left behind, proving that he should have just stayed close to hand, after all. That was the plan.

But then he had found himself sharing a room with Yukimura and Shiraishi. Things had barreled out of control fast. It was the devil himself who masqueraded as the child of god and had gripped Fuji’s life in the fist of a reaper.

It had seemed harmless enough. A little Russian roulette to pass the evening; assorted herb and flower teas with one nasty little ingredient sifted through the contents of one cup identical to all the rest.

Curious to get a taste of the famed deadly nightshade and confident in his iron stomach, Fuji had volunteered to go last. He had played the first round fairly, breathing in the scents and identifying the cup with the poison before taking a different brew. Shiraishi had almost fallen victim with only two cups remaining but an almost imperceptible signal from Yukimura had warned him off the poisoned cup, leaving it for Fuji to sample as he had hoped to.

The cramps and sickness had been otherworldly.

Yukimura had taken the utmost care of him, stroking his hair, murmuring to him, and cuddling him like a lifeless doll. Shiraishi had taken his lover from behind even as Yukimura cradled a shuddering Fuji and rained sweet kisses on his cheeks and hair.

The next night, Fuji had been determined not to show fear when Yukimura suggested a re-match. He’d had his taste of the sweet, horrifying poison. This time, he would steer clear of it. At Shiraishi’s suggestion, he took the first cup, shrugging to show them the order made little difference to him.

Little did he know that, this time, the brew was equal in every cup. The paralytic Yukimura had prepared took him as swiftly as a wind blows. He was helpless. He couldn’t move or respond, whether he loved or loathed what they did to him—and he experienced plenty of both sentiments.

When life returned to his limbs, Fuji had trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. Sandwiched between the two captains, he had been grateful for their warmth and the solid sense of protection that said he was safe even if he had no control over his own body.

The next night, Yukimura stole his control from him in a brand new way. He was presented with a fresh blend of tea, all pretext abandoned, and he drank from the single cup without questioning its contents.

For the next three hours, he had known a passion so fierce and ruthless it was agony even in release. Again, he had shaken uncontrollably when it was all over, this time as a side effect of exhaustion as he lay atop a purring Shiraishi.

In short, loneliness had transformed Fuji into a plaything for Yukimura and even though he knew he was in way over his head, he just kept trying to breathe in the rising water anyway. Maybe Tezuka had already tired of him but he knew it would be the last straw if his former captain ever found out what he was letting Yukimura to do him. Either way, Tezuka didn’t seem to have missed Fuji at all…

“Fuji-senpai.”

Quite unexpectedly, a shiver accosted Fuji at the sound of his name paired with the respectful honorific. How many times had Echizen called him that? How many times had he taken it for granted? All of a sudden, it felt a lot less mundane than it once had.

Fuji suppressed an uncharacteristic wave of disappointment as he turned on the rookie and said, “I’m not your ‘senpai’ anymore.”

Echizen’s crest-fallen expression sunk its hooks in fast and the next thing he knew, Fuji was headed back down the hall toward him. He hadn’t meant to be cold. A fact was a fact and it was Echizen’s own choice to part from them, after all—just as it had been Tezuka’s. Come to think of it, judging by Echizen`s complete rejection of his former comrades as reported by Oishi, something more had to be behind this moment of weakness on the rookie’s part.

So there they were; Fuji taken aback by his own empathy and Echizen staring up at him with a rare, unguarded expression. It soon clouded over, though, and Fuji felt his footing stabilize a little.

“Play me,” the rookie challenged, looking hopeful.

“I’m sure we’ll come head to head soon enough, Echizen,” he said. “Now that you’ve decided to play for America.”

“That’s basically what Atobe said,” Echizen muttered, giving a spot on the wall increased significance as he studied it emphatically.

“You spoke to Atobe?” Fuji asked passively, even as a red flag sprung up in his mental landscape.

That explained what Echizen was doing at their hotel, at least. When Echizen’s change of allegiance had come to light earlier, Atobe had seemed to take it in stride, almost seeming proud of the rookie and pleased at the possibility of facing him. Could it be that, in private, his view on the matter was entirely different?

“He broke up with me,” Echizen said quietly. His dispassionate tone was belied by swimming tears that stubbornly clung to his lashes before finally spilling over. “He said the captain of the Japanese Middle School Representatives has no excuse for fraternizing with the enemy.”

So that was why their captain had sent Oishi along with Byodoin to draw lots. He’d been busy breaking hearts. That prick. Hadn’t Echizen suffered enough when Fuji had claimed Tezuka for his own? Atobe and Echizen were supposed to be happy together so Fuji could stay with Tezuka guilt-free… Ok, so maybe that was a selfish view of it. “It doesn’t have to be too late,” Fuji told the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he anchored his focus on consoling his friend and kouhai—and Echizen was his kouhai, no matter what; just as Tezuka was always going to be his captain. “Your place is with us.”

“I know.” The candid agreement took Fuji by surprise. He was expecting a much less committed response if not flat-out denial. “But…” The rookie trailed off, leaving Fuji to connect the dots. It wasn’t hard.

“Does defeating Byodoin mean that much to you?” Fuji asked on a sigh.

“It’s not just Byodoin,” Echizen told him, pinning him directly with those big, golden irises. “I miss… I miss playing together with you and everyone at Seigaku—and the Black-Jersey team, and all the other middle-schoolers, and Tokugawa, and Oni, and even that weirdo, Irie… But… even more than I want to play with you…”

“You want to face us. Of course you would. I understand. I think all of us have been looking forward to that, too,” Fuji assured him, infusing his tone with positivity to try and raise the boy’s spirits. It wasn’t going to be so easy, however, because someone else was doing his darnedest to crush them.

“Atobe hates me.”

For the first time in a long time, Fuji flashed back to his time with Atobe. His ex was complicated and Fuji had put him through a lot but Atobe had never hated him. He’d blamed himself before blaming Fuji. “I doubt it… but if he did, it would be his loss.” There was definitely an opportunity here. The only question was whether Fuji really wanted to take it or not. He looked the rookie over. Friend; teammate; enemy. His ex’s lover. Probably still in love with Fuji’s own boyfriend… A boyfriend who had buggered off to Germany without an iota of a thought for leaving him behind. Echizen had abandoned their team, too, but in his case, it was Japan that had abandoned him first, and all because he saved a teammate’s life… Come to think of it, he might just be the only one—aside from Yuuta—caught up in this twisted net that Fuji didn’t want to see suffer on some level… “Echizen… I won’t play you outside of an official match but I have no problems ‘fraternizing,’” he suggested. “You can even call me ‘senpai’ if you want to.”

“Not really.”

“Liar. Come on. My roommates are probably off tormenting the high schoolers. Come and tell me about your new team.”

*

“…That explains a lot.”

Perched at the head of the bed, Fuji was shamelessly dangling a tennis racket phone charm above Ryouma’s face and enjoying the feline resemblance as the boy tried to snatch it with no idea of how plainly he was being toyed with.

So Ryouga was Ryouma’s brother and had lured his younger sibling to join the American team after Ryouma had been unfairly kicked out of the training camp. The resemblance was certainly not imaginary but still, something was off. Ryouma had simply said “brother” but Fuji doubted they were full siblings…

He drew the racket charm up into his palm and closed his fist about it. “I hope you’re getting along with your big brother. I’m sure he’s missed you since you came to Japan and joined Seigaku.”

Frowning in annoyance at the withheld object, Ryouma let out a grumpy little huff. “I guess so... He got taken away when we were kids and… I just don’t remember.”

Was Ryouma still suffering memory loss? That didn’t bode well. “Is there anything else you’ve forgotten?”

With a growl in his voice, Ryouma glared at Fuji as he demanded, “How would I know?”

“Fair enough.” Chuckling, Fuji decided to give him a break and dropped the racket charm into his waiting hands.

“Fuji-senpai… Do you miss Tezuka-buchou?”

“Do you think I should?” Fuji returned, letting his hand fall gently to Ryouma’s shoulder—almost accidentally.

Ryouma shrugged. “You’re really angry at him, huh.”

Since when was Fuji that easily read? “You know who else I’m angry at?” he deflected.

“Me?” Ryouma guessed. “For going over to America.”

“Atobe. For letting you.”

Further talk seemed unnecessary for a while after that, particularly as their lips were quite busy getting to know each other. Ryouma was shy at first, taking his time to come to the conclusions that Fuji had already reached. When he did, however, he was quick to take the initiative, stripping off his shirt and Fuji’s and letting his hands and tongue roam.

It was a source of entertainment to Fuji to try and identify what tricks Atobe had taught him. The rich boy had clearly groomed Ryouma and trained him, much like a prized pet. It was obscene, really; also thoroughly pleasing. Fuji would have to find a chance to thank Atobe for the results of that careful instruction.

It wasn’t so evident at first, however, as Fuji was intent on lavishing pleasure upon the younger boy. He turned that small, lithe, but strong body into a buffet—taste-testing every delicacy on offer. Ryouma’s nipples, he licked and bit until the boy was taut with restraint, exhibiting unexpected self-control as he glued his hips down to the mattress. Slow, deliberate breaths rasped from Ryouma as Fuji sucked and lipped at first one testicle, then the other. A squeak greeted his ears as his tongue flattened against and then flicked over and into the tightly clench ring below. He concentrated his attentions there for a time while lightly trailing fingers across Ryouma’s stomach and finally applied a feather-light touch to the silky-smooth skin of the boy’s cock. No more. That touch was merely a supplement to the workings of his tongue in and around Ryouma’s ass.

“Senpai…”

“Hmmm?”

“Fuji-senpai.”

Fuji froze, waiting.

“Fuji!”

The moment Ryouma’s pride gave way, he was ready to devour the boy’s length, applying an unrelenting vacuum of pressure supplemented by a caressing tongue and sliding lips. Desert came all too soon.

For Fuji, it was a unique experience, having been both in control and on the giving end all at once for the first time. He couldn’t remember ever having been so intent on another’s pleasure simply for the sake of giving pleasure. With Atobe, it was always just one part of the greater manipulation. With Tezuka, it was part of an exchange of sensations. This was something different, entirely, and he’d immensely enjoyed the response.

He also thoroughly enjoyed what Ryouma came up with next. Just when he’d thought he was getting a coy, playful blowjob with a lot of slow kisses to the head of his cock and a great deal of wet tongue up and down his length, Fuji found himself in a slick, sweaty struggle as Ryouma loomed over him and began simulating sex in a delicious grind. Impressively hard so soon after orgasm, Ryouma flattened himself against Fuji’s body and slid over him in a continuous crescendo of friction that had them both panting and moaning. It was the pinch to his nipples that shocked Fuji into releasing pent-up tension and humping frantically upward, his fingers curled into the sheets with a death-grip while Ryouma’s breathless grunts sounded right below his ear.

*

“Fuji-senpai.”

The satisfied sigh and contented expression should have been enough but there was still a mote of curiosity rattling around in Fuji’s mind. He studied the slightly bedraggled boy dozing in a cuddly sprawl half across the bed and half across himself.

“Should Atobe be worried, Ryouma?” he asked eventually.

Stirring sleepily, Ryouma disdained to open his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“What possessed you to go so far for Tokugawa?” Fuji asked relentlessly.

Slowly, Ryouma’s eyes opened, but he was rapidly catching up with that train of thought. “I didn`t do it for Tokugawa,” he said.

Fuji was quite sure that wasn’t the case and he was certain Ryouma would come to the same conclusion if left to his own devices.

“I just wanted to try out that new return.”

Fuji remained silent, disconnectedly admiring the deep green tint shining from Ryouma’s hair where the light crowned him. He wanted to stroke it but curbed the urge… for now.

“He covered for me and it cost him. I was just returning the favor.”

“Hmmm.” Now they were getting somewhere—but Fuji was beginning to get bored. “And he doesn`t remind you of Tezuka, at all?”

“… A little,” Ryouma agreed.

So that brought them to the heart of the matter. “You’re still in love with Tezuka.”

“Feelings don’t change that quickly. I’m still in love with Buchou. You’re still in love with Buchou. Atobe`s still in love with you. And so is Buchou. So what?”

It wasn’t so much a decision as an acceptance of the inevitable that drove Fuji to act—in the spirit of his new style in both life and in tennis. “You’re right. Feelings don’t change so quickly or so easily, but they grow. They spread.” Now, Fuji gave in to his urge to pet that silky hair, acknowledging the act as staking his own claim. “You love Atobe, too, don’t you?” Ryouma nodded. “Are you sure that’s all?”

It was early, yet. Perhaps Fuji’s expectations were based more on Ryouma’s involvement in the early says of Fuji’s rehabilitation, or perhaps because of the boy’s feelings for his own two greatest loves, but Fuji felt they should be able to skip the small stuff. Surely he hadn’t imagined the bond they had always seemed to hold, even before the good-will games selection camp fiasco…

“Are you saying I’m in love with Tokugawa? I don’t really know him but… maybe I’m interested.”

The growl that escaped him took even Fuji by surprise. “Wrong answer.” In moments, he was perched above Ryouma, his hair hanging down about them to shade out the bright light of the room. “Feelings grow and spread, and yes, slowly they change, and suddenly the kouhai you looked out for and wanted to impress is a rival, an enemy, but still you want to protect him, cherish him… maybe even love him…”

Ryouma looked practically edible, gazing up with those wide, golden eyes and delicately parted lips. Fuji wanted so badly to kiss him and then to take him in a primal display of possession but first he needed a certain verbal response.

He wasn’t to get it.

Just as he took breath to prompt the boy, the door burst open and a commotion shook the room as a babbling Kirihara backed blindly away from an advancing Yukimura.

“It wasn’t like that, I swear! Sanada Fukubuchou was just showing me a new grip. There was nothing… It wasn’t… Buchou, please don’t kill me!”

Frozen like a predator hovering protectively over his kill, Fuji turned only his head aside to observe the intrusion.

“Akaya, you misunderstand,” announced Yukimura. He flounced past the astounded second-year and sunk gracefully onto the end of the bed currently occupied by Fuji and his guest, paying no heed to them at all. He crooked a finger and despite his better sense, Kirihara gravitated toward him. “Genichirou doesn’t know what he’s doing…” It was incredibly smooth how easily Kirihara went from a terrified animal to a happy puppy sitting in his suddenly doting captain’s lap. Yukimura tidied his hair and brushed flecks of dust and lint from his aspect as he spoke. “Right now, Genichirou either thinks I’m punishing you or claiming you. He should be steeling himself up to storm in here and rescue you at any moment, whichever he believes. Then, he’s going to whisk you away to safety and make you his and it’s about damned time, don’t you think?”

“Yukimura…”

“Hush, Fuji. I’ll get to you in a moment. Now, Akaya…”

“Ooh! Is it bring your kouhai to bed night?” crowed an excited Shiraishi from the doorway. “Nobody move, I’ll be right back! I think I saw Kin-chan down in the lobby… Oh he’s going to love this…”

He was gone before the truth could be brought to light—whatever that truth was. Fuji was just about to snap at Yukimura when the predicted force of nature stormed in, backing up the captain who had just vacated the room.

Even as Shiraishi hit the wall to observe from a safe position, Sanada was on his knees begging for Kirihara’s release. The little devil was already playing along thoroughly with Yukimura, whimpering splendidly as the captain raked nails across his exposed stomach and then suckled gently at his earlobe. It was an incredible improvised performance—one that Fuji had no patience for.

“Let him go already,” Fuji rumbled.

The sooner Kirihara and Sanada took off to safety, the sooner Fuji could deal with the rising tempest that was Yukimura.

“Fuji!?” cried Sanada, as if having just noticed there were other people in the room. “…Echizen!”

“Akaya… Do you want to go with Sanada Fukubuchou?” Yukimura asked sweetly, ignoring the escalating tensions.

The response was largely incoherent but clearly affirmative.

“Very well. Genichirou, I’ll leave Akaya to your devices… on one condition.”

Sanada had to tear his eyes away from Fuji whose glare had turned dangerous at his new little lover’s name. The vice captain eyed his seemingly-ravished-but-actually-perfectly-intact kouhai and then his captain. “Name it.”

“You were never here. You never saw Fuji, or Echizen, and so Atobe will never know of it.”

Sanada didn’t hesitate for a moment—his loyalty to Atobe clearly second-rate when his berserk little charge was under threat by his terrifying home captain. “Done.”

“Fine. Go.”

“So… Should I find Kin-chan, then?” chirped Shiraishi the moment the room’s occupancy numbered two less. “I could pick up Niou for you to masquerade as Kirihara. Think how fun-”

“I can understand how you might think this my idea, love, but it seems Fuji is still quite the independent spirit.” Yukimura beckoned and Shiraishi went, easily slipping into the now vacant spot upon Yukimura’s lap. “I don’t remember saying you could indulge yourself with others,” Yukimura scolded the Seigaku tensai.

Despite himself, Fuji felt a thrill of fear that brought back some of the heat he had lost in the interim. He smothered it. “I don’t remember saying you could dictate who I indulge myself with,” he returned.

Again, despite himself, Fuji was disgusted to feel relief when Yukimura laughed. “Where did all this bark come from? I really had thought you were without fangs, Syusuke.”

“Keep baiting me; really.”

“Is that any way to talk to the one who took you in when you were a lonely stray?” Shiraishi scolded, petting Yukimura’s hair as if to restrain his anger even while his own cold stare was turned on Fuji.

“Fuji-senpai?” Half forgotten, Ryouma’s confused inquiry drew the attention of all three formidable players. “What are they talking about?”

“Echizen…”

It was almost elegant how swiftly Shiraishi and Yukimura detached at the Rikkaidai captain’s will. Within moments, the Rikkaidai captain was perched beside the bed, on an eye level with Ryouma. He propped his chin on the edge of the mattress and captured the boy’s eyes as he spoke.

Struck with images of all the things Yukimura might do to a rival, all Fuji could do was shield with his own body, pinning Ryouma beneath him with the intention of holding on for dear life if it came to that.

“Your senpai has been most tormented, my dear boya.” Yukimura spoke mildly; only that very restraint hinting at the lurking danger. “He was abandoned by his savior and you had your tiny little paws all over the one he most wanted to run back to… So I took him in.” Ever so gently, Yukimura reached out and stroked his fingers down Echizen’s cheek. “It would seem he has no concept of what it means to be mine. Unlike Shiraishi.”

Fuji had no hope. He was prized up from the waist and hauled backwards, locked into Shiraishi’s iron grip. He struggled, seeing only that Ryouma was now exposed to Yukimura’s whims.

“I don’t like it when others play with my toys,” Yukimura warned, rising slowly.

“Fuji-senpai isn’t your toy… He belongs to Tezuka-buchou,” insisted the youngest boy, showing no sign of fear or intent to protect himself.

Another laugh escaped Yukimura but this one was chilling, directed into the palm into which he planted his face. “Putting aside the question of why you think you can help yourself to Tezuka’s lover… You really are dense, aren’t you? Tezuka is a traitor, just like you. He turned his back on us and on Fuji. He hasn’t even made a move since he arrived here. I’m the one who gave Fuji a place to belong—at my heels. Now let me show you where you belong!”

Yukimura might seem frail but he was far from it, and Ryouma was so small. He was lost under that lithe body, shadowed beneath a fall of violet hair. His protests almost sounded like groans as Yukimura set to work on his body, shutting him up with a deep kiss.

“Let me go, Shiraishi! Yukimura, get off him! If you harm him, I’ll tear you apart!”

Fuji must have imagined the pause in Yukimura’s attentions. If it was real, it was only momentary. His words were ineffectual. Despair began to settle over him, filled with memories of baiting Atobe and getting what he deserved. Now Ryouma would have a taste of that dark world. It would change him…

Atobe had changed. Ryouma had done that. Fuji had changed, too. Tezuka had done that. But now he felt himself changing once more. It wasn’t ok to sink passively into Shiraishi’s arms and let Yukimura have his way with Ryouma. He couldn’t allow that. With a sudden clarity, Fuji knew that he had to fight for real.

A flame called aggression sparked in his gut and gave him the strength to throw himself and Shiraishi backwards, slamming the Osakan captain into the floor. He wasted no time, springing to his feet and launching himself at Yukimura—but Yukimura was already gone.

Fuji belly-flopped atop Ryouma, who grunted at the impact, while Yukimura looked down at them from beside the bed.

“Well done, Fuji. I’m impressed,” he praised. “I thought I’d have to go all the way before this kind of aggression woke in you. You must really care for him…”

Shock, like ice-cold water, immobilized Fuji until minutes after Yukimura and Shiraishi had left him alone with Ryouma.

“Fuji-senpai, could you move now? My spleen hurts.”

“Ryouma…”

Shameful tears welled up in his eyes, and before he knew it, Fuji was clinging to the boy and sobbing silently. Ryouma just rode it out, holding him back and letting him cry it out. When it passed, the boy was quiet for a time but he couldn’t hold his curiosity back forever.

“Fuji-senpai… What’s going on?”

“He was testing me.” Fuji laughed; a hysterical edge not detracting from his relief. “I played right into his hands.”

A growl issued from beneath him and Fuji felt himself shoved upright, staring into angry golden eyes. “If Yukimura is hurting you like Atobe did back then… Why are you even…? It’s not fair. Tezuka-buchou isn’t here to protect you… so I will!”

“Forget Tezuka! If he wanted to protect me, he would! He’s here, Ryouma! He’s here with the German team! But… he’s obviously forgotten all about me… Yukimura might poison me or drug me but he keeps me safe from myself—from my loneliness. Even now… I believed him. I believed he would hurt you, and he was still protecting me! He gave me a way to protect myself, for once… by acknowledging that I need to protect you. I couldn’t just let them do what they wanted with me because that would have meant abandoning you… like Atobe abandoned you… like Tezuka abandoned me.” Strength sapped as his epiphany ran its course, Fuji buried his face in his hands and took several deep breaths. Any moment now, Ryouma was going to express disgust and leave him just like everyone else. Any moment now, he would go running off to find Tezuka because that was who he really cared about.

“Yukimura sure is scary.” Tiny arms around his back preceded a small face against his chest. “I’m glad you decided to protect me, Fuji-senpai.”

“Ryouma…”

“You’d better not let your guard down, you know. If something happens to you, who knows what that crazy guy will do to me… Promise me you won’t let anyone hurt you anymore.”

Fuji knew he was being manipulated, just as he had done Atobe time after time. He knew, and yet he allowed it to happen. “I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

“Fuji-senpai… I don’t know what buchou is thinking… but it’s his loss—and Atobe’s.”

“Yes,” Fuji agreed. “It is. And my gain.”

*

Atobe was uncharacteristically quiet as he sipped from a fine china cup while around him an assortment of Japanese athletes tossed balls, brandished rackets, and bandied about insults and challenges as if regular conversation was an inferior means of bonding and communication. However, when a red-haired hurricane happened to his favorite Royal Heart teacup, he was pulled into the mayhem before he could quite understand what had happened.

“What is it with you puny little rookies, thinking you can break all the rules and trample all over other peoples belongings as if you owned them!?”

Only when a bandaged hand gripped his wrist did Atobe realize that the noogie he was bestowing upon the uncouth imp from Osaka was as painful to his precious knuckles as it was to the boy’s thick skull.

“Unhand him, you fiend.”

While the dramatic phrasing was rather laughable, the threat was not, so Atobe released Kintarou and turned to face Shiraishi head-on, only to find himself staring down not only Shitenhouji’s captain but Rikkaidai’s as well.

It was rare to see them out and about—and clothed, for that matter. “What are you two doing down here? Where’s Fuji?” he added suspiciously. The tensai had rarely been seen out of their supervision since the training camp had begun. Atobe didn’t like it much. He had wanted to talk to Fuji and find out what was happening with Tezuka but subtle manipulation from Yukimura had effectively blocked him while Ryouma had absorbed the majority of his spare time. Well, that was one less distraction he had to worry about…

“Fuji-kun?” Yukimura’s smile was slow to form and intensely deliberate. “I believe he’s… how might you put it? Fraternizing with the enemy?”

The enemy? Surely not… “Ryouma?”

“Speaking of, have you seen Echizen about?” Yukimura asked, lightly tapping on the theoretical nail that was currently wedged into Atobe’s rib cage. “I thought maybe we could find a way to lure him back,” Yukimura continued, oblivious to Atobe’s internal struggle.

Lure him back. Lure Ryouma back. Be on the same team again… If only it were that simple.

“I’m sure he’s more than adequately occupied with his new friends,” Atobe replied.

“He’s your boyfriend, right? Surely you have some say in the matter,” Shiraishi suggested. Atobe read the smirk as somewhat cynical and wanted nothing more than to bury his elbow in that smug face but instead he elegantly retook his comfortable armchair, took the new teacup Kabaji extended to him, and looked first Shiraishi and then Yukimura levelly in the eyes.

“That is exactly why I have decided to put our relationship on hold. Ryouma is free to do as he likes now. If he thinks that another team is more suitable to him, then so be it. It’s none of my business.”

“Did you hear that, Shiraishi? Their relationship is on hold,” Yukimura said in a tone that said he would not presume to judge whilst clearly doing exactly that.

“Better hold on tight,” Shiraishi muttered cryptically.

Atobe’s instinct told him something was coming but before it could, Kintarou leaped on Shiraishi demanding, “Koshimae is single!?”

“Koshi… Ryouma is not single! Ryouma is mine! Just not right now!” Atobe corrected him—and every other person in the room whose ears had just twitched suspiciously. “Make no mistake—anyone who touches what belongs to me will walk away with scalded fingertips, or worse. Kabaji, come!” he ordered, sweeping to his feet and out of the common room. He was dangerously close to running to Ryouma and begging forgiveness which simply would not do. Some time alone with his own magnanimous being was required to cool off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, an update! Konomi-sensei gave me hell on this chapter and I got lost in the re-write, trying to make sure I'd properly undone all the damage done after Atobe's supposed defection. @_@ So it took longer to finish up than it would have done otherwise.

The exhibition matches didn’t interest Ryouma so much. So long as they won, he didn’t really care. He had done his part in stalling until the rest of the team showed up and, irritated as he was at Ryouga leaving all the work to him and that ball-boy, he was more concerned with how things were going down between Japan and Germany. As soon as his team showed up, he was free to put an end to his opponents and leave them to clean up the rest.

Ryouma and Fuji hadn’t quite gone all the way last night. They’d made out a lot and mostly spent a lot of time talking. It wasn’t one of Ryouma’s favorite pastimes but he’d learned more about Fuji than he had since he had first joined Seigaku. It made him feel better about his choice to play for America; he craved that closeness with his old team and it was stronger than ever now with Fuji. In fact, he felt a little privileged to have gained so much insight into the tensai he had long looked up to, even after the drama with Atobe, and Fuji and Tezuka getting together…

Tezuka was playing for Germany. Even as it gave Ryouma a thrill to think of playing against Tezuka as a true opponent, he felt a chill in his spine for Fuji. The story of how Tezuka had left him mid-match and how he didn’t even really know if they were still dating or if he had simply been left out to dry… It was cruel. Fuji had come a long way thanks to Tezuka. How could Tezuka just give up on him like that?

Who would be playing in the exhibition matches? Would Fuji get his rematch? Maybe it would be Atobe who got the chance to take Tezuka on…

There was another source of discomfort. Things had been surprisingly great with Atobe. Ryouma got sick of the gourmet food pretty quickly but a few bets had gotten Atobe into a wholesome burger joint and Ryouma had never lacked for large upgrades and extra cheese again. He also loved visiting his boy… ex-boyfriend’s manor and practicing together on the various types of courts that dotted the estate. At first, he’d wondered how long he could put up with that entitled attitude but he’d soon learned that Atobe was not only devoted and passionate in private, but he could also be pretty adorable sometimes. Little by little, Ryouma had come to think of their relationship not as a substitute or a compromise but as a lucky find. Sometimes he was even glad Tezuka had chosen Fuji.

Stupid monkey. Didn’t he know a good thing when he had it? How could he just… Over a jacket and a team name… It was all tennis in the end. It wasn’t even a team sport in the fundamental sense. What did it matter which side anyone was on?

Atobe was going to regret letting him go. He was probably going to be pissed when he found out Ryouma had found solace in Fuji of all people but that was his problem. It wasn’t about making Atobe jealous. Atobe had given Fuji up to Tezuka because Fuji needed Tezuka. Well, now Fuji needed Ryouma, too. It was obvious that being with Ryouma gave Fuji something he was lacking. Whatever it was that had sparked in the tensai, Ryouma had no intention of taking it away now. Atobe would just have to deal with it and so would Tezuka.

By the time he finally arrived at the site of the Japan vs Germany battle, the third match was well underway and Ryouma was shocked to see how it was playing out. Yukimura and Tokugawa should have had any opponents crushed in their grip right away but they were floundering pathetically.

A quick look at the scoreboard showed that Japan had won the first match but lost the second. He was burning to know who had played in which but right now he was caught up in the train wreck on-court. Frankly, he didn’t mind seeing Yukimura suffer a little but he couldn’t fathom that boy’s strength failing, let alone Tokugawa’s.

He had put himself on the line for Tokugawa. If he hadn’t, he would have been on the Japan team now. He would have remained cozily with Atobe. He might even have been out on that court with Tokugawa, turning this match around…

Instead, Yukimura partnered him. It was a tepid kind of history Ryouma had with that particular behemoth. That one finals match in which Ryouma had been stripped of his senses had left him wary and un-approving. Then he’d noticed that Fuji was rooming with Yukimura and Shiraishi—one of the few players to have beat the tensai in a game as close to serious as the tensai had been known to play—and Ryouma had been concerned for his senpai’s well-being. He’d thought that Fuji and Tezuka had worked something out between them before his captain had left. It hadn’t occurred to him that Fuji had felt abandoned and alone. Why hadn’t he approached Atobe? Not that Ryouma would have been willing to share or anything. He just didn’t understand why the tensai had faced loneliness instead.

But he hadn’t been lonely. That was the problem. Yukimura had been there, filling in the gaps—all of them, metaphorical and literal.

_“Yukimura might poison me or drug me but he keeps me safe from myself—from my loneliness.”_

Ryouma fumed at the remembrance of those words. Poison. Drugs. Atobe’s rough play had been tame compared to the sick games Yukimura seemed to be into. It was the Goodwill Games camp all over again, only now Fuji was struggling with what seemed like rejection from Tezuka on top of it.

_“Let me go, Shiraishi! Yukimura, get off him! If you harm him, I’ll tear you apart!”_

Just the thought of mild-mannered, submissive Fuji-senpai snarling such a violent threat in his defense gave Ryouma a little thrill. He glanced down at where the tensai sat, looking pleased with himself and oddly satisfied as his teammates floundered. From what Ryouma understood of the understanding between Fuji and Yukimura, it was certainly unhealthy enough for Fuji to find some amusement in his keeper’s weakness. Truth be told, Ryouma enjoyed it a little himself, because he was disgusted to realize that he was already doing what he had considered to unsavory in regards to Atobe—he was sharing. He didn’t like sharing.

With a small frown, however, he noted that Fuji’s line of sight wasn’t focused on Yukimura, nor on the field of the match in general. His smug little look was plastered on Tokugawa.

A pang of surprise accompanied the realization that Fuji was jealous. Because Ryouma had said he might be interested in the high-schooler.

Fuji was jealous. Over him.

Staunchly ignoring the fact that he was only pleased about that because he was even more jealous about Yukimura’s claws still pinning Fuji under his control, Ryouma decided to give his senpai, and—he decided abruptly—new boyfriend, something to really get jealous over.

Ignoring Yukimura, he shouted out what he considered to be blatant encouragement of Tokugawa-senpai.

*

What would it take for Atobe to shake this inferiority complex Tezuka had instilled in him? He should have been the one entering that match with such complete confidence. He had destroyed Tezuka the last time they had played. If Tezuka was now playing for Germany, it was because Atobe had driven him there.

It wasn’t tennis that made him feel inferior, though. It was his general worth as a man.

Tezuka had been the one to transform Fuji’s masochistic tendencies. All of Atobe’s love and desire had come to exactly nothing faced with Fuji’s troubled soul. Only Tezuka had been good enough to change things.

If that weren’t enough to worm seeds of doubt into the well-tended soil of Atobe’s confidence, he had been forced to win Ryouma’s love little by little over the entire course of their relationship so far. It was degrading, and in any other case Atobe would never have bothered with someone who was so clearly in love with another… but then, so was Atobe himself—and Ryouma was worth it. So he’d worked at it over time, and finally felt secure in his relationship with Ryouma… and then the runt went and pulled such a crazy stunt as abandoning Japan altogether!

Just like Tezuka. His idol.

A snort of disgust puffed out of Atobe’s nostrils as he surveyed the choppy water. The beaches in Australia may be beautiful, but those waves looked treacherous.

To think that Ryouma had turned tail just because Tezuka had was ridiculous. Atobe was doing it again—getting so caught up in his passions that he forgot about his ambitions. Ryouma had those, too. Obviously. As did Tezuka.

They had their priorities straight. Tennis over love. Atobe could respect that. That was why Tezuka defeated him so easily—not because Atobe truly believed he was inferior and thus mentally sabotaged the match; because Tezuka had dedicated himself to tennis, body and soul.

Atobe had known that. He just forgot it sometimes, when he got caught up by the distractions of lamentably unavoidable teenaged drama. He’d known it when he set Ryouma free and told the boy where both of their priorities should be right now.

Wading into the sea, he was aware of it again, more keenly than ever. Tezuka had the right of it. It was time Atobe followed his example instead of wallowing in resentment. He was going to put tennis at the pinnacle of every decision from now on, no matter how hard.

*

When the captain of one’s team summoned, it was usually prudent to answer. When one’s ex summoned, the opposite was often true. A summons from one’s captain and ex who were both one and the same resulted in quite the dilemma—especially when one was sleeping with said ex’s latest ex. Then again, as far as Fuji was concerned, rubbing that in might be worth the aggravation.

It was a little strange. He hadn’t felt the usual antipathy people were supposed to experience towards an ex until… until he’d seen how Atobe’s selfish whims had hurt Ryouma the other night. Then, his respect and gratitude had withered.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Every time Fuji saw Atobe in the flesh he still felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with memories of rough play. Atobe certainly was a fine specimen of the human species—though Fuji would never tell him that… mostly because there was no point in telling someone what they already knew well enough.

“You have a lot of nerve, keeping someone as important as myself waiting.”

Same old Atobe.

“Oh, were you waiting? What a coincidence. I had it in mind to visit. I thought it was about time we had a little chat,” Fuji replied, sliding into the other window-side chair and propping his chin in his palm as he gazed at his former lover with a supremely serene expression.

“Don’t play games, Fuji.” A storm of emotions flickered through Atobe’s eyes in a split second. “I was under the impression that you had moved beyond that. Your match today…”

“Old habits…” Fuji muttered, his gaze turning gradually sharper as he steeled his nerve. If Atobe wanted direct, he could have it. “What could you possibly want with me, right now? You broke up with Ryouma yesterday and today you lost to Tezuka. If you’re looking for someone to take it out on-”

“Broke up with…?” The captain’s surprise registered in the smooth rise of one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. He didn’t even rise to the bait Fuji had laid out. “I did no such thing,” he refuted. “We’re on a break.”

Damn. He really meant that, and he actually expected that Ryouma understood it that way, too.

“He seems to be under a very different impression,” Fuji replied mildly, spicing his tone with just a hint of innuendo that Atobe could interpret how he wished.

The diva was not to be perturbed. “That’s for the best. Ryouma belongs to me and when this tournament is over, I’ll re-stake my claim—so don’t you get any permanent ideas.” How rich that was—and late, as usual. “In the meantime, it will do him good to think of me as an enemy because that’s how I will be thinking of him. And Tezuka. In fact-”

Enough rallying, it was time to go on the attack. “Keigo, you can’t break up with him every time you’re on opposing teams! It never bothered you with me,” he reminded, belatedly annoyed at how petty it sounded.

Atobe lifted one lithely muscled shoulder in a fascinatingly elegant shrug. “You never fought to win, anyway. What would have been the point?” There was a long pause as he let the truth of that statement sink in. “Be that as it may, you have it all wrong, my lovely fool of a tensai. I’m saving Ryouma from confusion.”

“Is that what you think? Because it seems to me the only one suffering from confusion is you,” Fuji snarled. As though he were standing on the balcony looking in, he observed dispassionately as old habits truly did kick in. He found himself going for the trigger with brutal efficiency. “Whether you intended it or not, as far as Ryouma’s concerned, you’re the self-centered prick who kicked him to the curb out of wounded pride. I’m not the one you should warn off of getting any ‘permanent ideas.’ It didn’t take long at all to open up that affectionate little core of his.”

Fuji had to give Atobe credit. The captain had come a long way in terms of self-control—far further than Fuji had, that was for sure. “I'm not confused, Fuji,” Atobe said in a quiet, steady voice. “I did this for Ryouma because, without realizing it, I had already come to understand in a way the lesson that Tezuka taught me today.”

“What nonsense is that, then?” Fuji seethed, reeling at the mention of his… what? His boyfriend? Did that make Ryouma equivalent to a mistress? Or was Tezuka his ex now? That was how things felt these days. Why was Atobe bringing Tezuka into this?

Atobe sighed. “Fuji, are you even here to play tennis?” he asked. It was a barbed question that seemed a change of subject until Atobe pressed on with his point. “Tezuka is, as am I,” he stated. “As is Ryouma. What I learned from Tezuka is that these relationships we get so caught up in are just distractions from the tennis we should be focusing on. Whether it's Tezuka’s relationship with you, my relationship with Ryouma, or my relationship with my family and duty to the family business, or even to the Japanese team... These distractions undermine our conviction. That's why Tezuka went as far away from you as possible to pursue a career in tennis. That's why I gave Ryouma the freedom to focus on his game and cut the ties binding him to the Japanese team, and why you will, too, if you care about him at all.”

For a short time, Fuji’s unexpectedly emotional reaction to discussing Ryouma with his ex and the sense Atobe had begun to make had left the tensai on shaky ground—but only for a very short time. If conviction was the issue, then Fuji found it during that lecture. Cut Ryouma’s ties to the Japanese team? He would do no such thing.

“You're making a mistake, Atobe. I won't follow your misguided example,” he warned.

Perhaps Atobe was right about Tezuka’s needs and his own, but Fuji’s tennis was founded in his relationships and interactions with the people around him. In reaction to those relationships, his tennis was able to evolve and grow. Perhaps it wasn't an ideal philosophy for a sportsman but while tennis was important to him, it was still just one portion of the greater tapestry of his life.

Ryouma was the same, he was sure.

“Clearly, you don’t mind losing Ryouma to me just as you lost me to Tezuka. In that case, let me make myself understood: I have no intention of giving Ryouma up; not to you, not for Tezuka, and not in the name of tennis. If you—and Tezuka—want tennis to be the only thing you live and breathe for, then it’s welcome to you both. As for me, for the first time in my life, I feel needed, and damn it all if I don’t need that more than I need the satisfaction of being the best at whacking balls about a tiny patch of this great big world.”

The monologue ended in a flourishing exit that was more worthy of Atobe than it was of him. Fuji slammed the door behind him harder than he meant to as a tide of tears gushed up and crested, spilling down his cheeks.

Eventually, Atobe, too, would realize that his so-called conviction was merely a side-effect of the feelings he hadn't yet awoken to; feelings for Tezuka that Fuji could recognize as clear as day now. There was nothing cathartic about this pain of losing two loves all at once; for suddenly Fuji knew he had never completely excised Atobe from him heart. He would not lose a third.

*

Fuji’s loss to Shiraishi had been a shock to Tezuka. That the tensai had finally drawn on his potential was startling enough, but that he had done so and lost… it was disappointing. That in itself was one thing, but what happened next was disturbing.

Fuji’s win over Niou struck a warning in Tezuka as he began to understand what was happening. Their relationship had come to directly rule Fuji’s tennis. The tensai lost to Shiraishi because he took too long to fully invest himself in the match. Niou, on the other hand, had invoked Tezuka’s play-style, and triggered Fuji’s fighting spirit.

It was clear that Fuji craved the opportunity to play him and to pit their skills against one another’s. And yet, playing Tezuka for real, the tensai shackled himself because he couldn’t truly bring his skills to bear against the boy he loved. He was a complete conundrum.

The confirmation of how singularly Fuji relied on him pushed Tezuka to make a move he had begun to contemplate for reasons pertaining to his own future but hesitated to go through with because Fuji needed him so much. That was a problem, though. Fuji needed him too much, and yet, he didn’t.

What Tezuka had begun to realize was that Fuji had already changed a great deal, he just didn’t realize it himself yet. Tezuka loved him deeply, and that was exactly why he was capable of wounding himself for the tensai’s sake. Without him, Fuji might falter for a time, but he would rise stronger for it. Then, once he was able to stand on his own two feet—both on and off the courts—then they could be together again. It would be a healthier relationship for the hardship.

How many times had Fuji slipped into old habits? Trying to manipulate Tezuka just for the sake of doing so without even realizing what he was doing? That was better than the early days, though. Fuji trying to hurt himself when Tezuka wasn’t looking… Even stupid tactics like putting himself in the way of powerful shots and acting like it was accidental… Ryouma had been the one to shut that down. The rookie had made his disappointment clear and Fuji had shrunk in on himself and not tried such a thing again. They had been difficult times, but love had gotten both Fuji and Tezuka through.

What Tezuka hadn’t known was that he, himself, had come to rely on Fuji a great deal as well. It was even harder than he thought, leaving Fuji and leaving Japan. He’d wanted to dash to Fuji’s side the moment he landed in Australia, but that instinct frightened him and adversely served to help him keep his distance. They both needed to learn to get by without one another so that when they did have one another, it would be all the more special.

Then, he watched Fuji play. It seemed like fate that Tezuka was facing his friends and old rivals of the Japan team right from the beginning. It was such a strange feeling, wanting them to win and yet wanting even more to win himself. Fuji, though… Fuji had outgrown his support.

In so short a time, the tensai was like a man reborn. It wasn’t only his tennis that had changed, but something fundamental in his attitude. It had fired Tezuka up enough to utterly crush Atobe—which only proved that Tezuka was still under Fuji’s influence, even if the tensai had already freed himself of the shackles that had weighed him down.

Made aware of his own weakness, Tezuka was further rocked by the knowledge that Ryouma had abandoned Japan as well, and rumor had it that he and Atobe had broken up over it. Now that Atobe was single again, and Tezuka had so confidently left Fuji to fend for himself… It was only a matter of time before that old flame found kindling. That, he couldn’t allow. It could only result in regression.

It didn’t matter if Tezuka gave in; just this one time, he needed to see Fuji and reaffirm that everything they had was still intact, because the tensai might not need him anymore, but he sure as hell did need Fuji. Especially if the alternative was letting someone as smarmy, detestable, and otherwise flawless as Atobe get a foot back in the door.

Showering off the sweat of his night training, Tezuka dressed in the periwinkle blue shirt Volk had bought for him, saying it was a good look on him. The pro was full of advice for how to attract sponsors yet still prohibited him to so much as interact with anyone making overtures. Tezuka didn’t mind. He would be ready when Volk judged that he was ready. Until then, he had a long way to go. His capitulation to the need to be with Fuji was proof—even if he had held out longer than he had thought he could.

*

Fuji chuckled as Ryouma gave a bare-bones, arrogant but un-self-congratulatory account of his match. Just the fact that he’d deigned to appear in a doubles match was a bit of a shock but it made increasingly more sense as halfway through the story it was revealed that his doubles partner was an untried substitute covering for Ryouga.

Interesting that Ryouma would consent to play doubles with his big brother. The course of the match also made a lot more sense if one considered Ryouma basically playing singles against multiple opponents. To think that kind of feat could be pulled off at this level of tournament… Well, not every team could be a Germany… or an America… or a Japan, for that matter.

Fuji’s own match had been far easier than anticipated. He’d felt his blood boil with Tezuka’s eyes on him and each new, aggressive technique he exposed had been like a firework of exultation going off. It wasn’t until after the match when he had caught that subtle trace of Tezuka’s smile that he had begun to wonder.

Had Tezuka been applying this emotional torture just to push him to reveal his true potential? If so, Fuji didn’t like it. He wasn’t sorry for the evolution of his tennis but he would play on his own terms. Tezuka was going to get a shock when they came up against each other on the courts because if tennis was all Tezuka was about, it wasn’t going to be enough.

In the meantime… Ryouma’s storytelling was accompanied by a slight bounce that was driving him a little mad.

Seated in Fuji’s lap, his small back against the tensai’s chest, Ryouma had draped himself with his arms lazily wrapped back about Fuji’s neck. It wasn’t a pose calculated to be sexy; Ryouma was just sleepily lounging about on his new favorite piece of furniture—Fuji. It was sexy, though, and with that telltale little bounce cropping up whenever Ryouma mentioned something he was proud of but didn’t want to sound like he was bragging about… Fuji refrained until the recount of the match came to an end but when it did, his hands were gliding down the rookie’s body before he could stop himself.

“You must be tired,” Fuji muttered with just a hint of suggestiveness to counteract the statement. “You probably just want to go straight to bed.”

“Only if you take me to bed,” Ryouma retorted brazenly, running his own hand up his abdomen until he caught Fuij’s fingers which were creeping up under his shirt. He wound his fingers between Fuji’s knuckles, tenderly entwining their hands in a show of affection. Fuji should have known what was coming. “I heard the monkey king lost to buchou.” He said it so lightly and accompanied the words by dragging Fuji’s hand up his chest to brush lightly over his left nipple. “He’s probably taking it pretty hard.”

“Not as hard as you’re going to,” Fuji told him in a sensual tone that was designed to distract.

Ryouma hummed as Fuji rolled his nipple between thumb and finger—so sensitive, it was delightful.

“And Tokgugawaaah!” Short gasps. “Damn. Why does that feel so good?” Ryouma moaned.

Fuji smirked against his shoulder, following up the pinch with a gentle circular rubbing motion. “Who?” he dared.

“Tokuuummm. Stop that. Tokugawa,” Ryouma finally managed. “And Yukimura. It’s hard to believe…”

Ryouma seemed to forget what he was saying as Fuji simultaneously shifted his attentions to the other nipple and slipped his fingers inside Ryouma’s shorts.

“It’s hard…”He floundered again as Fuji brushed his palm down the awakening length of his erection.

“It is, isn’t it?” Fuji agreed, quite pleased with his seductive skills. He rested his wrist along the appendage while curling his fingers about Ryouma’s balls with a calculated pressure.

In retrospect, Fuji should have barred the door with the safety bolt, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of Yukimura lending someone his card key.

Even after Tezuka walked in, blanched in shock, and then slammed the door closed behind him, Ryouma moaned as Fuji shifted his wrist deliberately against the boy’s length and massaged his balls. Right under Tezuka’s furious glare.

“Oh, my. We have a guest,” Fuji crooned, then switched to English. “Which country’s hospitality should we greet him with?” he asked the paralyzed boy in his lap. He then smiled acidly at Tezuka as the German equivalent of “Can I help you?” rolled effortlessly off his tongue.

“B-buchou.”

The breathless gasp pressed a little red button in Fuji’s brain.

“He’s not your buchou,” Fuji whispered, loudly enough for Tezuka to hear, even as he stared into those framed photographs that passed for eyes. Sliding his hand down, he pressed the pad of his middle finger against Ryouma’s entrance and massaged the dry little bud for ultimate effect. Squirming and gasping, Ryouma almost tried to shimmy up Fuji’s body like a cat, trying to escape that touch and what it was doing to him in front of his beloved captain—who did not look at all impressed.

“B-but, senpai… He’s your-”

“He’s not my buchou, either,” Fuji said mildly but for the gravelly crack to his voice as his mind substituted another, more painful word. He lowered his eyes to Ryouma’s neck and put his mouth to the spot—tongue first, then bottom lip, then upper; the malleable, manipulative muscle of his mouth closing sensually over the skin. Sucking lightly, his eyes flicked back up to Tezuka, who he watched from beneath his lashes.

“I’m not your captain,” Tezuka began confidently, taking a step forward. His will faded quickly, though, under Fuji’s slit-eyed stare, and he lost his momentum. “Or Echizen’s,” he added, rallying and taking a breath. He swallowed the sudden bout of nerves, and then spoke the vital words he was determined to invoke. “But I am your boyfriend.”

Fuji wanted to rejoice at that admission—that confirmation that his fears had been misplaced—but he was too angry that Tezuka had avoided him for so long if he truly felt that way.

What did give him an unexpected spike of joy was Ryouma’s reaction.

“Wrong,” the boy muttered, no longer trying to squirm away from Fuji’s teasing finger. His whole body relaxed and he rolled his butt, pressing into the touch instead. “That would be me. Right, Fuji-senpai?”

A pang of guilt hit Fuji that this moment should have been a private affirmation between them. Instead, he was using it to hurt Tezuka and Ryouma was forced to subject himself to unfair scrutiny. Putting his _ex_ aside, Fuji withdrew his groping hands and turned Ryouma’s chin toward him. The boy adjusted instinctively so that they were able to meet each other’s gazes head on, and then Fuji pressed their lips together, slowly closing his eyes as Ryouma’s lids mirrored the action.

For all the exhibitionism, it was a sweet kiss, enough to make Fuji forget that Tezuka was watching every moment of it. He savored the feel of Ryouma’s lips moving slowly against his own—now crushing, now yielding, now brushed with the tip of a tongue. The brevity of it only highlighted the intensity.

“Right,” Fuji whispered. He let himself believe for a moment that Ryouma was the only one he spoke to.

Then, the boy’s eyes shifted fractionally, and Fuji followed that flicker, looking past his brand-new boyfriend to his old. Their eyes met.

Belatedly, Fuji realized that this was not what he wanted at all—not what he _had_ wanted, anyway. He’d been waiting so desperately for Tezuka to reach out to him—and now here he was, proving that he still cared, probably brimming with explanations. But that didn’t undo the fact that Fuji now had Ryouma, and that this was something he wanted as much, if not more, than Tezuka’s apologies.

“Now,” he said coldly, committed at the very least to not making this easy for Tezuka. “Can I help you?”

A long, unreadable stare, a shift of the heel, and then Tezuka swept to the door, opened it, and hauled it shut with another loud bang. Fuji stared at the shuttered exit in muted shock.

*

“Fuji-senpai… Was that really ok?”

Looking up at the tensai who was still staring after Tezuka, Ryouma couldn’t shake the feeling that that had all gone horribly wrong. He shouldn’t have butted in like that. He knew Fuji and Tezuka were meant to be together so he should have removed himself from the equation and let them work it out instead of issuing a possessive challenge that could only complicate matters.

Why had he done that? Because he was still jealous over Tezuka? Because he was angry at Atobe and didn’t want to go back to feeling lonely without Fuji to comfort him? Except, it wasn’t about that with Fuji at all…

“What did you expect to happen when you challenged him?”

Belatedly, the question gave Ryouma the realization that Fuji’s eyes had shifted to him and had been observing his silent internal debate. He fought the ridiculous urge to blush and averted his gaze.

“You thought he would put up more of a fight,” Fuji guessed softly.

“He didn’t even try.” Ryouma glared angrily up at the tensai as if it were his fault, then realized what he was doing and relented. “Sorry.”

How could it all have been over so fast? He’d been ready for a prolonged argument and resigned to losing the tensai in the end. He just didn’t understand how Tezuka could have given up like that.

Tezuka didn’t just walk out on Fuji. Tezuka had fought for Fuij, won him over, and then been happily at Fuji’s side ever since—until his defection, at least. For him to give up so easily just didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t right.

Ryouma wanted to go after him and demand answers. He felt angry and betrayed—but if he felt that way, how much worse must it be for Fuji? Any moment now, there would be tears, he was sure.

“Ryouma.” No tears, just a long, quiet observation and a tiny little smile, only a little bit weary. “Did you mean it? That you want to be my boyfriend?”

Of course he meant it!

Of course he did…

So that was it. That was why Ryouma stuck his nose in without hesitation. It wasn’t about Tezuka or Atobe. It was about Fuji, because at some point, having rooted for the tensai’s rehabilitation and been glad to see him flourish with Tezuka at his side… Having been close to Fuji and opened up to him as a friend in ways he hadn’t done even with Momo… Having found solace in Fuji’s arms when his own heart was breaking… Somehow, in all of this, Ryouma had fallen for him on an emotional level.

When had it happened? Just now? From the very beginning? He couldn’t even recognize the turning point in his own feelings.

“I already am,” he murmured. Though his intention was to sound confident, the words came out with a good dose of vulnerability. He pouted moodily, daring the tensai to contradict him.

“You and me,” Fuji whispered, his fingers soft on the skin of Ryouma’s jaw and neck, “We want other people, but that doesn’t mean we have to want each other any less.”

He understood very well what Fuji was saying. Still, there was one point to clarify.

“You could still have him,” Ryouma said softly. “Run after him right now and he’ll be yours again.”

“Probably,” Fuji agreed. “But I’m not willing to lose what’s right in front of me.”

Ryouma’s breath caught in his throat. This was new and unprecedented.

Tezuka had barely even noticed him, choosing Fuji without ever considering that Ryouma was an option. Atobe had only come to appreciate him when Fuji was forcibly removed from the diva’s entitled arms.

What was happening here was that Fuji was choosing him over all the rest—putting him first instead of considering him a consolation. A small seed of panic was building in Ryouma because it wasn’t meant to be him that Fuji chose; it was meant to be Tezuka.

“Ryouma…”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shake his head.

“Has it even occurred to you that you could run after Tezuka just as easily? Right now, you have a shot at what you always wanted. You don’t have to settle for me.”

With a shuddering gasp, Ryouma closed the gap between them and sealed his lips to Fuji’s in a deep, communicative kiss that negated the need for further debate.

*

Fuji was taken aback by the depth of passion in Ryouma’s tiny frame. After kissing him to within an inch of his life, the little tennis star writhed against him, displaying an erection quickly recovered and with double the vigor.

There was one thing Fuij was sure of—he wanted to take Ryouma and stake his claim to the amazing boy he had underestimated for so long, but his quarry wasn’t making that easy.

Groaning, the tensai arched his neck and shifted his hips, trying to retreat from the exquisite friction assaulting his suddenly-aching cock. Rubbing and grinding, Ryouma seemed determined to get them both off right then and there, and Fuji had no idea what he had done to switch the boy on so thoroughly.

Not that he was complaining but… they _were_ about to embark on a very important round of matches from the next day onward. It wouldn’t do for either of them to be too worn out.

Maybe Ryouma should top. Fuij was used to playing sore—he’d relished it during his time with Atobe.

It would be a moot point if Ryouma kept humping into him with such damnable precision.

“Stop!” Fuji gasped.

The result was instantaneous. It was remarkable how still Ryouma became, like a program halted on command. Fuji was so shocked, he forgot what had prompted the—presumably futile—command to begin with.

“Did I hurt you?” Ryouma hissed, his eyes frightened.

Fuji’s own eyes widened in surprise as he understood just how sensitive his little lover could be. He was too close to the mess that had been Fuji’s breakdown. He was afraid of doing something wrong.

The sentiment was touching but for the time being, Fuji cast it aside. This was a time for passion. “I’m in an agony of pleasure,” he purred. He almost rolled his eyes when Ryouma’s narrowed suspiciously at the choice of words. “I promise you, I’m different now,” he said seriously. “No more manipulation, no more goading anyone into hurting me—especially not you. Do you trust me?” There was just enough hesitation to sting, but what mattered was that Ryouma nodded. “I trust you, too.”

It was much easier to divert the course of their actions now that Ryouma had stilled and strategic thought became possible once more. Fuji kissed his new boyfriend and hoisted him up, short legs wrapping easily about his waist as he relocated them to the bed.

There was no such thing as being too cautious. Fuji had no intention of risking any lingering pain in his little lover so he decided to forgo further foreplay and focus on thoroughly stretching Ryouma to his satisfaction. As the elder, it was his responsibility to ensure not only that their intercourse was more pleasurable than painful, but also to be sure that they were careful. He wasn’t used to being on top but something about Ryouma enticed him, and he had a feeling the boy would stubbornly refuse to have it any other way.

Despite Atobe’s skill and Tezuka’s diligence, he had never known it was possible to be quite so turned on from the act of preparation. With three fingers moving slickly back and forth inside of him, Ryouma was mewling and whimpering, his cheeks flushed prettily red and his expression completely unguarded. Fuji was sure he could cum just by looking if he let his guard down for even a moment.

Not even Tezuka’s turn of phrase sounding in his mind could deter him, nor could the thought that Atobe must have seen this incredible transformation many times. Right now, Ryouma was his to pleasure, and he meant to excel at it.

*

Ryouma squirmed. He panted. He bit his tongue.

Fuji was taking such exquisite care and driving him completely mad with every teasing brush and careful stroke. He wanted to shout at the tensai to hurry up and fuck him already, but he was also reluctant to contradict the inclination to encourage the tensai towards such gentle care of his own body.

Eventually, though, he realized that Fuji had no intention of stopping this delicious torture any time soon. The tensai was watching him through slitted eyes, practically purring, and altering his touch in response to all that he observed.

“Enough,” he whispered. Licking his lips, he tried again, croaking the word out more audibly this time. “Enough.”

Fuji’s face fell. “It looked like you were enjoying it.”

Ryouma groaned and threw an arm over his eyes in denial. “I am!” he cried. “And if you don’t get on with it right now, you’ll find out just how much.”

“Hmmm.”

“Damn it! You are not considering that!”

The growl came as Ryouma flung himself upward, glaring down at the tensai who was still crouched low, leisurely caressing his inner walls with dexterous fingers. He lost his bluster looking at the content expression his senpai wore and decided to change tactics, bending forward to twine his fingers into soft brown hair. Guiding Fuji toward him, he achieved his goal, the maddening fingers sliding easily from his body as the tensai moved to brace himself, leaning into a deep kiss.

“Right now,” Ryouma demanded, however softly-spoken. “I need you to take me right now.”

The command was taken rather literally, Fuji pushing him back and looming overhead with an intense expression and no further discussion or procrastination. He lined himself up and held Ryouma’s gaze captive as he began to press in. Still maddeningly gentle, at least he wasted no time with chatter.

Slow breaths in and out tampered with his sense of fullness and Ryouma began holding his breath for longer periods as sensation intensified. With the expansion of his lungs and belly, he was more aware of internal feeling and a faint lightheadedness made the crystalline blue of Fuji’s eyes sparkle prettily.

Contrary to his intentions, Ryouma’s hands curled in the sheets even before Fuji was sliding back and forth within him. There was an intensity to the tensai that played havoc with his mindset, making the physical experience all-the-more emotional, and thus driving him toward the brink of orgasm faster than he had ever experienced before.

Skilled to the point of obscenity, Atobe had been a master of control, guiding and channeling him to perfection so that they would cum together at the height of bliss. There was no control with Fuji, only instinctual manipulation of all the right buttons to send him reeling—and he was reeling. In fact, he was seeing stars.

“Senpai,” he whimpered.

His vision blackened. He opened his eyes to blue gems and artistically molded ivory. Darkness again.

“Fuji-senpai…”

A flash of blue fire and a curve engraved into the rose-painted lips of a beautiful sculpture.

“Fuji…!”

Darkness and hot, wet breath at his ear. “Syusuke.”

“Syu… Syusuke!”

A roiling ceiling enchanted with rainbows. Pinpricks dancing behind closed eyes.

“Sysuke! I can’t-”

“Don’t hold back.”

A wordless cry heralded an orgasm so strong and sudden it was painful in a sense. Ryouma’s body rocked heavily under the assault of Fuji’s bucking hips. He rode out the seizing of his muscles and enthusiastic, lengthy ejaculation, thighs and sphincter cramping as his body fought to process the incredible sensation of cumming without even a fleeting touch to his erection.

Fuji jerked above him and the thrusting culminated in a shuddering series of lackadaisical humps as the tensai took gasping breaths that sounded loudly in Ryouma’s ear. They clung to each other even after the contractions stopped, still tingling with the lingering shock of release.

Eventually, Fuji pushed himself up, leveraging himself on his elbow and stroking Ryouma’s sweat-damp hair back from his eyes. The younger boy went completely limp, sinking languidly into the mattress and smiling a slow, soft smile that came with a hum of satisfaction.

This was going to work.

A warm but lazy butt of the lips replaced words as Fuji then slumped to one side, tiredly pulling Ryouma against him. They were both almost grossly sweaty and Ryouma was going to need a shower before he could even imagine sleeping, but for the moment, comfort was a greater motivation than cleanliness, and Fuji was so damn comfortable.

“From now on, you call me Syusuke,” the tensai mumbled.

Ryouma was amused at how intent on the name his boyfriend seemed to be. To demand such a thing in such a quiescent moment…

“Syu-pie.”

“…Huh?”

“Syusuke-senpai… Syu-pie.”

“…That’s awful.”

“I like it, Syu-pie.”

“How would you like it if I called you E-chi?”

E-chi? Like ecchi? From Echizen-chan? Trust Fuji to come up with a nickname that was both ridiculous and sexy all at once and think it was a threat.

Ryouma began to laugh—softly at first, but louder and louder, until Fuij had no choice but to laugh along with him. Feeling just a little energized, Ryouma propped himself up and planted a little peck on his boyfriend’s lips.

“I’ll be E-chi if you want me to be,” he teased.

The tensai groaned, knowing he was never going to get rid of the stupid nickname he’d been saddled with. No matter. Ryouma would save it only for choice private occasions… probably.

“You know… I think I like it,” Fuji said unexpectedly, giving Ryouma a little squeeze. “No-one else would ever call me that.”

“Of course not.” Ryouma snorted. “It’s stupid.”

That much, he could admit.

“Ryouma… I want you to know…” The tensai trailed off but Ryouma sensed that he had more to say and would do so in his own time. “What happened earlier… with Tezuka…” Another long pause. The tensai began to draw idle patterns on Ryouma’s back. “I regret it,” he whispered, his fingers stilling. “I would be lying if I said otherwise but… I don’t regret this. I don’t regret you.”

“You might not regret it now, but if we don’t shower off, you will in the morning,” Ryouma responded, reluctantly pulling away. He stopped at the hand on his wrist attached to a body that wasn’t going anywhere. “I understand,” Ryouma said, his eyes on the carpet. “About Tezuka… But I don’t regret this, either. So,” he said, switching gears and standing up—dragging Fuji with him as the grip on his arm held firm, “Let’s go take a shower so we can keep on not-regretting it in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might need to wait on the full goings-on of the first day of competition before the next chapter can be completed, so expect a long wait. Maybe. It depends on how long the muse decides to drag out the happenings of the tournament-eve. Such drama-llamas, all of them.


	3. Chapter 3

Leaving Tokugawa’s room, Yukimura was unusually reticent. Quiet was often a natural state for the calm young captain but it was rare for his expression to be so closed. He barely batted an eyelash at Shiraishi, who leaned against the far wall, waiting for him.

“You’re not going to start with that jealous resentment nonsense, are you?” Yukimura asked tiredly.

Shiraishi shrugged off from the wall, slinking over to his lover. “Jumping to conclusions, aren’t we? I just figured your jaw might be sore from consoling Tokugawa.” He stroked the ridge in question. “And while I know how strong and independent you are, you probably don’t feel like bending down and blowing yourself right now.”

Even as the left corner of his lips rose in approval and his eyes dragged in slow appreciation up the familiar body before him, Yukimura let slip a skeptical huff. He set his hand just below Shiraishi’s shoulder. “Believe me, if I could, I would.”

“You mean you can’t?”

“…You mean, you can?”

If it bothered either of them to be seen clinging waist-to-waist in the middle of the hallway, neither gave it away when a troupe of high schoolers streamed around them on their way to the hotel pool. Swimming at night was a real Australian luxury.

“How about you go ahead to the sauna and I’ll join you in a bit—and then you can show me.” Yukimura suggested.

“Is that all?”

Unexpectedly, Yukimura nodded and rested his cheek against Shiraishi’s shoulder, turning the embrace into a glorified hug. “Sometimes it’s nice to just cuddle.”

“That, I can agree with,” Shiraishi hummed.

Yukimura left him then to go get a change of clothes and a towel. Later on, the two captains strolled arm-in-arm in the warm, dry evening air and ran smack-dab into a face that didn’t belong—no matter how much it felt like it did.

There was no hesitation on Yukimura’s part when asked for Fuji’s room number. Nor was there any obvious indication as to what he thought about Tezuka’s sudden appearance. He even checked that Shiraishi had his key on hand and gave his own over—supposedly so that Tezuka could wait in the room if Fuji wasn't around.

Shiraishi’s head tilted in the adorable puppy-like gesture Yukimura so adored as he watched Yukimura watch the traitor walk away. “What is he going to find that makes you so happy?”

“Happy?” murmured Yukimura, favoring his lover with a sly look. “I don't have to like something to find amusement in it.” He dwelled on that amusement for a moment before the corners of his lips drooped in the more accurate expression of disappointment that he felt. “I knew I wouldn't have Fuji forever but it was oh so fun while it lasted.”

*

“Tezuka-”

The player for the German team utterly ignored Atobe as he stormed past, away from the lobby of the hotel that housed the Japan team. Struck dumb at the livid misery churning in those stormy eyes, usually so sure and certain, Atobe was afraid to consider what could have brought about such unusual turmoil in his rival.

Afraid, but not flummoxed. The answer was clearly Fuji.

“Sweet torture, I’d say; flaunting his little conquest…” tittered the last voice Atobe wanted to hear.

“Put a sock in it, Yukimura.”

”Oh, that’s right. Forgive me, Atobe. I forget sometimes that Fuji is also your ex.”

Fat chance.

“It must be tough on you. Why, when I swung by—My, have you noticed how beautiful the night sky is in Australia?—Never mind. More importantly, Fuji was getting pretty comfortable with your rookie.”

“My…”

Shiraishi cocked his head. “Is he still your rookie, though? Or is he an ex, too?”

“It’s all getting a little hard to follow,” Yukimura agreed. “You lot just keep on changing labels like fashion itself is going out of fashion.”

“Ryouma?”

Atobe felt his blood run cold. Ryouma. His cocky, infuriating, and still inexplicably innocent little Ryouma in the hands of the tensai who had turned Atobe’s life inside out throughout their rocky relationship…

“Admirable of you, putting loyalty to the team first,” Yukimura commented lightly, as though he was complimenting the weather. “Stupid, but admirable.”

“Fuji has no such boundaries,” added Shiraishi with a leer.

“Ryouma is with Fuji?” Atobe clarified, needing to be sure that their insinuations were to be taken seriously.

“Probably rather blatantly if Tezuka’s snappy little retreat is anything to go by. Fuji really doesn’t hold back,” the Rikkaidai captain gossiped, sounding impressed.

“Fuji…” The sigh from his own lips took Atobe by surprise. Surely he had meant to say “Ryouma…” No. He hadn’t.

He was disappointed in the tensai. Fuji was supposed to change. That was why Atobe had given him up to Tezuka. Who knew what he was doing to the brat or what he had in store?

Yes, Atobe was worried for Ryouma. He couldn’t stand to see the boy twisted and manipulated as he had once been and damn it all to hell, he was jealous—but he was equally pained by the knowledge that Fuji was clearly cheating on Tezuka for whom he had left Atobe himself.

Atobe had thought his threats were just baiting. He’d thought Fuji was just trying to drive Atobe crawling and begging back to Ryouma. What had happened to the tensai that he would do this—to Atobe, to Tezuka, and to Ryouma? To himself.

“Surely you can do better than this sad resignation,” Yukimura scoffed, simultaneously reminding of his presence and needling at Atobe’s pride.

Shiraishi took a less direct angle. “Are you really going to just let Echizen get caught up in this drama?”

Tsking, Yukimura turned to his lover. “You underestimate how self-centered he is, Shiraishi. He won’t risk his own heart in this. Look what he let us do to Fuji. If he won’t protect one ex, why would he protect the other?”

Atobe’s blood turned to ice in his veins in an instant. “What are you talking about?”

He was ignored. “What do you expect, Yuki? He’s so caught up with himself he never noticed Fuji climbing so neatly into your pretty little web.”

“What have you done?” Atobe growled, grabbing Yukimura by the collar and shaking so that he would not be ignored again.

Yukimura was placid and unfazed. “Nothing Fuji objected to, I assure you.”

“Yukimura!”

The effeminate captain gently but sternly pried Atobe’s fingers loose in a subtle reprimand. “He’s quite safe with me. Ne, Shiraishi.”

Shiraishi shrugged. “No lasting damage, at least—not like Atobe’s brand of play.”

With an animalistic gnashing of his teeth, Atobe barely managed to restrain himself from violence. “Leave my presence this instant before I tear you both apart.” When neither of the infuriating pair seemed inclined to move, Atobe sacrificed his pride for the hard-won self-restraint he had learned to prioritize and stormed off… in the direction in which Tezuka had departed.

*

One breath after another. If he just kept breathing steadily, he wouldn’t have to cry. He wouldn’t have to think about anything but remembering to breathe in once the contents of his lungs were fully expelled. He wouldn’t have to dwell on anything when a full set of lungs threatened to trigger those lurking tears because the most important thing was pushing the poisonous carbon dioxide back out of his body to make room for more oxygen. Deeper breaths. More oxygen. Open the mouth for greater intake and maybe the world would stop spinning…

“Tezuka!”

“This is all your fault!” Tezuka rounded instantly at the sound of that cultured, smarmy voice, his failing meditative cycle disrupted. “You did this!”

“Excuse me?” Atobe stopped short, his expression indignant.

“You’re the one who let Echizen go!” Tezuka snapped, advancing on him with gritted teeth.

“Everyone keeps saying that!” Atobe actually sounded incredulous. “Like any of you know how hard that was for me.”

But Tezuka did know, if the pain that flashed momentarily in Atobe's eyes was an accurate reflection of that he himself had felt since leaving for Germany the second time. The fight gushed out of him. The tension drained from his shoulders.

Oxygen in. Poison out.

“Goodnight, Atobe.”

“Not so fast. This isn’t about Ryouma. Let’s talk about Fuji.” There was more sass in Atobe’s tone than he had any right to and that was what halted Tezuka’s retreat. He wanted to yell at someone, to rear and lash out. If Atobe was volunteering… “What the hell are you doing? I keep trying to convince myself—and Fuji, by the way—that you’ve got some noble cause, but you know what? I can’t quite get my head around it. After everything we went through-”

“Unbelievable.” Teeth gnashing, Tezuka grabbed Atobe by the collar, wishing he had the guts to wrap his fingers around that pesky throat instead. “You know, I could almost have accepted it if he’d gone back to you, but you were so damn wrapped up in your own little-”

“You still don’t know him at all, do you?” Seemingly unthreatened, Atobe remained calm and condescending. “You left him, and his self-worth dropped so low he could never bring himself to approach me, to intrude. We would have taken him in. Both of us. We would have-”

“You disgust me.”

The crack of contact came to Tezuka’s ears before the sting manifested in his cheek, confirming that the sharp slap had indeed happened. Apparently, Atobe’s limit was closer than implied.

The rich boy practically growled. “You don’t have the right to say that to me. I have been nothing but a good friend to you, and to Fuji, however you see it. You don’t get to abandon him and then shit all over me to shirk your guilt.”

Glowering, Tezuka ignored the blow. Also ignoring the genuine emotion of the reprimand Atobe had just unleashed, he snarled right back, holding onto his wrath for all it was worth because it was all that stood between him and despair. “Fuji and Echizen, all at once? Just how greedy are you?”

There was a pause before Atobe responded in a quiet voice lacking aggression. “I love them. Both of them. Just because I fell in love with Ryouma doesn't mean I ever stopped loving Fuji. That's why I let him go—but things are different now. I'm different n-”  
   
“Perfect!” Tezuka dug in his pocket and thrust out the card key he had unconsciously walked away with, which Atobe accepted on instinct. “Here's Yukimura's room key. Why don't you go and join them?”  
   
He turned on the ball of his foot. However, Atobe grabbed him and almost pulled him off balance. If not for their mutual superior reflexes, they might both have gone down. Instead, they ended up in an awkward grapple. The key went flying.  
   
After a stunned moment, Tezuka struggled against the hold but Atobe countered so astutely there was barely any movement. They were so close, and for one crazy moment, Tezuka thought the diva was about to kiss him. Then, he remembered that he himself had kissed Atobe once. The memory was so absurd and off-putting that he stopped fighting… and the moment he released the stiffness in his body, he went completely limp and his arms collapsed around Atobe, his face tucking into the crook between neck and shoulder.  
   
He forgot to breathe. He forgot to block the images that formed with crystal clarity behind closed eyelids. He forgot that this was the one person to whom he could not afford to show any weakness.  
   
The first sob was a dry heaving of air but then the tears came and he shuddered against Atobe’s solid frame, encouraged by the warmth and comforting press of the arms that encircled him like a friend.  
   
“I didn't even knock,” he whispered, the moment he opened his mouth and found that he could speak. His arms tightened and he drew more firmly against Atobe as if he could somehow shed some of the pain through that contact. “I was nervous and excited and I used the card without thinking. I missed him so much… but they were right there. He just kept at it, as bold as you could ever imagine.” As the words poured out of him, Tezuka was detachedly grateful that his rival refrained from disputing that comment with a quip about the vast resources of his most royal imagination. “Fuji’s hands were everywhere. He wouldn’t let Echizen go and then… Then they united against me.” The initial stress of a storm unleashed at last began recede swiftly once he got through the hardest parts of the story. Slowly, Tezuka began to loosen his hold, blinking away wetness from his lashes. “All this time, I thought he knew... He was so cruel.” He wiped at his tear-swollen eyes, dislodging his glasses and not caring. “He greeted me in German. I've never seen him that cold—not to me. He fondled and kissed Echizen right there in front of me.” Tezuka began to withdraw but he couldn’t regain his posture; couldn’t look Atobe in the eyes yet. He needed the superficial contact between them to keep his knees from short circuiting. He felt small and malfunctioned, and just kept talking in search of an out. “He would probably have just kept going even if I stood there and watched. He was trying to hurt me, I know it. How could he do that? Why?”  
   
“Why?” The question was surpassingly dry and not nearly as pitying as Tezuka’s unaccustomed emotional outpouring deserved. “It might have something to do with your skipping off to Germany without warning.”  
   
Tezuka frowned and shook his head. How could Atobe say that? “You're the one who told me to go! All this time… I thought he knew. I thought he understood how difficult it was for me to leave him—physically, not emotionally.” If Atobe had misunderstood him, was it possible that Fuji had done as well? It was unthinkable. “I've missed him so much… but if I said it out loud I would have gone racing back to him and wasted-”  
   
“He doesn't know. He doesn't understand,” Atobe enunciated clearly and carefully. He brought his hands to Tezuka’s shoulders and pushed his rival fully upright so he could stare directly into tear-warped lenses and somehow get the point across. “How could he if you don't tell him?”  
   
“He should! I love him so much, how could he not-”   
   
“He needs to be told. Every day. He needs to be reminded. Every time he starts to doubt—which is every day. You can't just go silent on him and expect him to hold it together.”  
   
Tezuka shook his head again, barely able to make out Atobe’s stupid mole through glasses that were now useless, let alone interpret what was in those clouded eyes. “But he's so strong!” he rasped, his throat still constricted. “I saw him play today!”  
   
“You don't get it, do you?” Tezuka was thrown by the patience in those words where he expected to hear frustration. Atobe let go of him and took a step back, spreading his hands in entreaty. “Fuji's not like us—not like any other player. He's strongest in tennis when he's mentally weak. Emotional instability; anger, fear, irrationality... That's what gives him strength.”  
   
“That's ridiculous.” Starting to feel a headache coming on, Tezuka removed his glasses and began to polish them, realizing that Atobe had nothing logical to say.  
   
“Is it? He was at his mental strongest facing Shiraishi. He lost.”  
   
Tezuka frowned. “Shiraishi is a powerful player.”  
   
“So is Fuji. You know that. You just don't understand the source of his power.” Wiping his face dry, Tezuka slipped his glasses back into place. They were hazy but visibility was passable. His eyes focused on Atobe’s lips as the diva kept talking and talking… and little by little, the things he said actually began to make some kind of sense. “That's not surprising. For us, tennis and love are unrelated. For Fuji, they're one and the same. It’s just a manifestation of emotion. Why do you think he can't beat you? Just playing you calms him too much to tap into the emotion he needs to win.”  
   
Tezuka’s lips thinned in dissatisfaction. Not because he still doubted Atobe’s logic, but because he didn’t like it at all. “By that assessment, his performance today would imply…”  
   
“That he's in a state of utter turmoil?”  
   
Damn him for looking so smugly pleased with himself! “That doesn't make any sense. He seems fine. He's determined.”  
   
After a beat, Atobe closed the one step between them and leaned toward Tezuka’s ear. His deep voice bordered on distracting even in this painful conversation. “Our perverted and manipulative but placidly passive-aggressive tensai just molested Ryouma before your very eyes and raked his nails down the lining of your heart.” Atobe’s velvety tone invoked such imagery that Tezuka almost felt the sting of those nail tracks. He shuddered. Lips brushed against his ear as Atobe hissed the next words right into the sensitive drum. “Determined, yes.” The next was a growl. “Stable? Hardly.” A chuckle receded from proximity as Atobe skirted around him and began walking on as if to leave him there; alone, broken, and fully deserving. “If I wasn't so concerned for Ryouma, I might consider stirring the pot a little and watching his opponents keel over like dominoes.”  
   
Tezuka’s breath was shallow, his thought scrambled. He almost shivered with the lack of warmth against his body and hot breath at his ear. He shook it off, turning a glare upon the retreating temptress. “You haven't changed a bit.”  
   
“Oh, for heaven's sake, that was a joke!” Atobe threw over his shoulder. He stopped, frowning, when he caught Tezuka’s expression. “You still don’t trust me, do you? I'd no sooner hurt Fuji than I would throw a game for cash!”   
   
Tezuka felt a wave break over him as he realized how close he had been to falling under Atobe’s spell. He hadn’t been referring to the threat to Fuji at all… He’d been referring to Atobe playing on his sense of rejection and winding him around that elegant little finger like a spool of spun silk. He’d been referring to the sudden desire that had begun to pool within him only to have Atobe abandon him without a care. He would die before he let Atobe realize that.  
   
“I trust you,” he admitted. “I just don’t like you. You have no right to joke about Fuji.”  
   
Atobe almost snapped back but the flash in his eyes receded and he huffed. As a result, he spat out his thoughts as straightforwardly as he ever would in his life. “The point is, he's punishing you because he thinks you were punishing him and he doesn't know why. Come to think of it, we were all shocked and confused when you fell off the face of the planet after leaving. That you just went radio silent after leaving him-”  
   
“I didn’t leave him! I had an opportunity and I took it. Just like  _you_ insisted I do! I had to! We have our whole lives together! I… I thought we did. I wanted to. If I could just get myself in fighting condition… and secure my own future, like Yamato-buchou encouraged me to do... we could have… been happy.” Little by little, it came crashing down on Tezuka that his reaction to Atobe’s natural allure was purely a side effect of the fact that he was now single. He’d been lucky enough to hold the one he loved in his arms and he hadn’t held on tight enough. The future he’d so carefully envisioned together with Fuji was now part void and only the career he pursued remained.  
   
“Then that's exactly what you should have told him!”  Atobe shouted. What was he so mad about? This wasn’t his tragedy, it was Tezuka’s. His concern for Echizen didn’t quite cover that much emotional investment in what Tezuka should and shouldn’t have done. “Good luck getting him to listen now. I told you to go. I didn't tell you to crush his spirits in a match and then leave without another word! You could have turned the match down. You could have talked to him.”   
   
Tezuka took a step and stumbled. He could see just fine but he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him at all. All he could see was Fuji’s fingers playing over Echizen’s skin, their mouths locked, skin flushed… It really had happened. And now he was alone.  
   
“Hey, watch it!”  
   
Tezuka leaned gratefully into Atobe’s arms. The tears he had shed earlier had just scratched the surface of his emotion. Now, he had no strength for tears. He just felt weak and hollow.   
   
“I didn't know if I would succeed,” he whispered, staring blindly at the pavement. “I didn't know if I would ever be as strong as I could have been before.” He closed his eyes, his fingers clutching vaguely at some material attached to the one who was holding him upright. “I didn't know if I had a future in tennis,” he confessed. “I didn’t know if I would ever be able to promise him a stable future. I left Japan. I left school. I gave up everything. For us. For our future.”  
   
*  
   
Atobe knew in theory that what was happening to Tezuka wasn’t his fault. He knew, in theory, that the shock that had cauterized a fatal wound had worn off and now all the visceral blood and guts were pouring out with nothing to stem the flow. A little part of him knew that the seam would have torn sooner or later with or without him, but he also knew that his words had worn it thin and broken the mutilated skin.  
   
Somehow, the evidence of Tezuka’s pain caused his own to flare. Tears pricked at his eyes and he loathed them.  
   
“I'm sorry, Tezuka. I'm so sorry,” he breathed.  
   
Only after the words were out did he realize that he was apologizing for something else, something they had never fully discussed. That future Tezuka had feared for. The reason he had left Japan in the first place…   
   
Shaking his head, Tezuka tried to take a wobbly step away from Atobe but just ended up dragging the Japan rep along with him. “You're right,” he groaned. “This is my fault. I should have been more open with him. I should have-”  
   
A twisted sound escaped Atobe’s throat. “Not that, you idiot.” Perhaps it was because he had held this inside of him for so long. Perhaps it was because of all that had passed between them since that fateful day, with Fuji jammed between them—and now that wedge was gone. Perhaps it was in mourning for what suddenly seemed like wasted struggles between them. Whatever the reason, Atobe could barely speak through the emotion that fought to overwhelm him with sudden burning intensity, clawing at his eyes and strangling him. “Your shoulder,” he choked out bluntly. “I'm sorry for what I did to you.”  
   
They stumbled together to the curb of the path, parking their asses upon it rather ungracefully. Tezuka was heaving slow, dry breaths while Atobe’s eyes streamed without his consent. There was no room for voice or speech.  
   
It might have been ten minutes, or even half an hour before they were both calm enough to put words to what passed.  
   
“Are you still hung up on that?” Tezuka asked suddenly, his voice gruff and tired.  
   
Atobe responded just as flatly. “There isn't a single day when I don't think about it even once, and wonder-”  
   
“Well stop. That was on me, too. I could have backed down at any time but I didn't want to lose—not to you. I was more arrogant than you ever will be.” He stood, slowly, brushing down his backside and taking slow, deep breaths between sentences. “I was positive I would win before I went too far. I never even realized that ‘too far’ came long before the damage made itself apparent.”  
   
Atobe stared helplessly up at him. “...I did.”  
   
A sharp gaze lingered on him for one long moment, then turned down the path toward the next step forward. “That's in the past. I am healed, and I am working towards the career I've dreamed of. With... or without Fuji.”  
   
Impressed, Atobe got to his feet. His face was dry now, his mind calm and his focus returning. Neither he nor Tezuka would benefit by dwelling on what was now history. It was time for a return to his confident self, and to draw the lines without cause for doubt.  
   
“Let me make something clear,” he said, waiting for Tezuka to turn back to face him, setting his stare with equal conviction. “Ryouma is mine. The moment I decide it, he will be back at my side. As for Fuji, if... Not if. When. I have no reason to hold back anymore. So when I decide to be with him, he will come around. For now, I have a team to lead to victory. We won't lose to anyone; not to ourselves, not to Australia or Switzerland, not to America, and certainly not to Germany—so I suggest you stop worrying about players from other teams and start worrying about your own.” Tezuka just stared at him with the slightest iota of skepticism, so he kept talking. “This is a tennis tournament, not couples therapy. I don't care what team you belong to, I won't stand for it if you give Japan a bad name. When you lose, it will be because we were better; not because you were distracted by heartbreak.”  
   
“For the record,” Tezuka began, his voice dripping with irony, “I don't hate you because of my injury or because of your history with Fuji. I hate you because you’re an asshole.”  
   
That was the Tezuka Atobe liked to see. That was the player worthy of his respect and his determination. He smirked. “And I hate you because I'm an asshole. We're in accord.” That statement might have been a fitting end to the conversation… but it would be a waste to pretend they could just go right back to being reluctant frenemies. “Just so you know... I'm not opposed to a good hate-fuck. Or revenge sex. Or any of the other kinds of sex I'm eligible for as long as Ryouma and Fuji think they have things all figured out.”  
   
One short, reluctant chuckle snuck past Tezuka’s lauded guard. “Didn't you just lecture me on keeping our minds on the game?”  
   
“Oh, I think you and I could rise above the game,” Atobe responded with appropriate sass. “The offer stands.”  
   
“You... are a maniac. Goodnight, Atobe…” For a moment, Atobe thought he’d pushed his luck. He thought Tezuka just might actually hate him as much as he claimed. He thought he’d misread the signals. Then, Tezuka stopped and looked back at him with the tiniest little quirk of a smile—a smile that held a lot of promise. “Good luck tomorrow. I hope to face Japan in the finals.”  
   
Atobe had a lot to dwell on as he headed to the hotel court—where he had been bound before running into Tezuka and Yukimura. The day’s events… loss to Tezuka, nostalgia at meeting with old friends from England, the clash with that brick-for-brains Australian rep and his uncouth mutt, the verbal chess match with Fuji, his belated suspicions of what Yukimura might have been up to right under his nose, the knowledge that Ryouma and Fuji were not only together but so determinedly so as to put on an exhibition for Tezuka, and the final tumultuous emotional upheaval and release of guilt that came from facing Tezuka himself… There was nothing for it but to turn that fuel into fire.  
   
Irie’s confession hardly affected him after all he had been through in the last 12 hours. What did make a difference was the revelation that he would have a chance to solve at least one issue on the morrow. The Australian team would soon learn that he couldn’t be provoked… but that didn’t mean it was wise to hold a candle to the ice that surrounded his inner flame.  
   
He smirked to himself as he finally retired for the night, wondering if Tezuka had turned in already of if he was still out there training away the excess. He and Tezuka were exactly alike. They were both strengthened by their trials; forged and re-forged again until there was nothing left but lethal skill. Let the others play their games. Atobe cared to involve himself in only one game: Tennis.

**Author's Note:**

> As this story will probably follow developments in the manga, expect updates to be slow. It will be a long-term project.


End file.
